


The Courtesan's Wolf

by NothingTame



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Bestiality, F/M, Gen, Het, Romance, Sex, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingTame/pseuds/NothingTame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion story to The Price of Gratitude. Tharrah is a brothel mistress & a broker of information, putting her interests on hold when her sister goes missing. Her search leads her to a broken Worgen who thinks himself beyond hope & redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ragged Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this almost two years ago as a companion piece to my other work, The Price of Gratitude. Both started on ff.net, I've decided to at least edit this one and begin updating it again. I've realized that I need to tie up this story before I can finish my original piece. Bah. So bear with me. Feed back is always welcome.

Braeburn looked at his hands

_(Claws. Paws?)_

-and wondered why he couldn't get the blood off his skin

_(fur. talons. pads.)_

-even after he tore at the dirt and filth at the bottom of his cage.

The sun hurt his eyes. He slept during the day. When the stars came out, he cried. Cried as wolves do, he supposed, with a lamentful whine that made him think of a puppy he found as a wee lad. It'd been trapped under the foundations of his parents home, abandoned and scared, crying piteously for someone, anyone, to save it.

That was what he was doing now.

_Someone. Anyone. Please save me. Save me from what I've done, what I did. There's blood here, blood on my hands and my soul._

Behind his eyes.

_And the pleading. The voices won't go away._

He curled up in the bottom of his cage, still keening, whining.

_Now that I am back, I don't want it anymore._

And then:

_I'm an animal._

Days passed. They'd long stopped giving him the foul tasting potion that had brought his mind back. Still, he was fleshed in muscle and bone and fur that wasn't his own. He no longer felt his hair on his head

_(it was everywhere-)_

-as the same hair he'd sported before. His limbs were longer, harder, stronger-

_(demonic strength that rends socket from body to screams and laughter-)_

-and he was trying, and succeeding, in killing the happy memories over the Before.

 _Before._  Before the ground shook. Before the wolves came in. Before the bite. Before the war. Before the  _screaming_.

His ears caught voices. They flicked, an ability he didn't have Before, and cradled the sounds.

Real sounds. Not the quaking tremors that radiated through his mind.

"This one should be shot," came an arrogant, grating voice. "The serum was meant to revive the humanity within, not reduce him to a sniveling, pathetic pup." There was a disgusted sniff, and a creak of leather and metal.

 _Oh gods_ please _shoot me-_

"No," came a gentler, calmer voice. "He practically seeps of regret. Look at him."

_Nopleasedon't-_

A rustle of movement and flesh; the voice was closer.

"The beasts without souls do not feel anything but rage and hunger.  _Look_  at him. He grieves. He sorrows." Silence, the voice drew back. "He has his mind again, he has found his soul."

The sob he tried to voice came out as a low, keening howl.

"Give him his shield, then," came the snide retort. "Tell him where to find his sword. We have need of anyone that can help us pick up our shattered country. Let him be one more to stem the tide and aid the line."

The next morning, the sky over-cast and the gulls calling, they opened his cage and gave him his shield. They pointed to his sword.

He did nothing. He looked at his hands. They still bore bloodstains.

He looked to his countrymen, most as changed as he, but proud, erect, hopeful.

That was not him. He was not so forgiving of himself.

He dropped his shield.

He ignored his sword.

He tore the clothing from his form and he howled with anguish, pulled at his hair

_(fur)_

-and bolted to the hills, on all fours, as an animal should.

Because that was all he was now, and all he ever would be.

And animals knew no forgiveness, or memory.

He would sacrifice both.

 _It was all he deserved_ , the blood told him as he howled to the skies.

And he believed it.


	2. The Lady D'Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're at all familiar with The Price of Gratitude, you've met Tharrah through her darker half-sister, Maia. I've known for ages that her story would form from Maia's, and I've been waiting anxiously for the chance to spill the beans on HER little story.
> 
> This is the beginning. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Oh, and I only own the story and the characters. Everything else Warcraft belongs to the delightful folks at Blizzard.

Tharrah D'Winter relished her career choice for the tenth time that day, contemplating the treasure of a man groveling at her feet. With a sigh laced with just enough boredom to tweak him, she propped her chin up on her hand as she leaned forward.

She let the silence stretch out, shifting as she crossed her legs, letting her gown flick about her bare ankles. With him kneeling and bent over, it was the perfect gesture to tease him. She literally heard him swallow in the quiet of her viewing room.

By far, he was the easiest prey the courtesan had on her list of acquired clients. And that was more than pride speaking, oh yes; he was a scholar, a man devoted to his studies of choice, and there were few who knew their field as well as he. The best part, without a doubt, had been that  _no one else_  knew this in all of Stormwind city.

No one save Tharrah.

With another sigh, this one edged with sorrow, she uncurled herself, leaned back in her plush chair and uncrossed her legs as she did so.

"I am sorry, my lord," she murmured, regret pouring from her words. "But I cannot offer you the services of my House for free, even to a gentleman as esteemed and worthy as you." She let a frown furrow her features, a thoughtful expression, before she shook her head again slowly, deliberately.

"No, I'm afraid I cannot accept your request; even as fond of you as I am, my lord," she entitled him again, "My servants and ladies depend on me for the coin I bring in. As valuable as you would be to my list of clients, I cannot in good conscience allow you free rein for nothing." With an uneccassary flick of her finger and lifting of hand, she gestured to an unseen attendant in the shadowed curtains behind the groveling scholar.

He was no lord, not by the conventions and politics of the city, but to Tharrah he was as valuable and as respectable as any wealthy patron. Oh, she knew she manipulated him, without a doubt, but it was to good cause. She meant to recruit him and knew that she'd never let him leave her estate without his signature on her patron-list.

Not that he could leave her, now. 

 

* * *

 

When she'd first met him, he was holed up in the palace library, up to his eyebrows in books, pouring into a tome that probably weighed more than he did. Unkempt hair, robes askew, he looked nothing like the tidy young man bent over her toes now. He was obsessed, as most good students were, with his chosen course of studies, and rarely left his precious books for anything other than sleep and sometimes food.

Her lady-attendant, Meaghan, had laughed at her when Tharrah had told her who her next 'target' would be, even as she helped her get ready for the first encounter.

"My lady," she'd snickered, "He wouldn't know a pair of tits if they were unveiled beneath his very  _nose._  Unless they were labeled and catalogued, of course."

Tharrah had tugged the shock of pink hair that rippled over her attendant's shoulder, cursing her for her own laughter. "We'll see," was all she'd said.

And so they had; she slipped into the Royal library without fanfare, looking for her prey with the intent discreet focus of a silent predator. He had been so oblivious to the world at large she'd had to literally run into him to get him to notice her.

With a cry of outrage, face contorted and books tumbling from his hands, he whirled about, a loud declaration on his lips.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW  _FRAGILE_  THIS MANUSCRIPT IS-?" he began, spinning to face her.

To say he was robbed of speech at the sight of her was an understatement; it was as if Tharrah had stolen the very air he needed for thought, let alone the ability to speak.

She was dressed in a gown of a deceptively simple cut, in a shade almost exactly the honey-tone of her skin. It was modest in make in that it covered her from neckline to toes, with even a small train trailing behind her, but decidedly  _un_ modest in that it clung to her intense curves like a second skin.

She was somewhat shorter than most women by an inch or so, broad in shoulder, small in waist and wide in hip. It was a fertile, nubile silhoutte, sinful in its sensuous grace and almost, almost comical in its suggestive nature. She was proud of her shape, of her deep pelvis and alluring, subtle features.

Her eyes were a dark, deep brown, edged in lashes the color of burnt gold, set in a face called heart-shaped by some and round by most. Her lips, full and sweet, were never painted (as was the rest of her face; she detested make-up) but always moist in appearance, ever easy to smile and often so. She was no stunning beauty, even with her long, straight, endless fall of pale, silver-hued hair, but in her bearing and her bones she presented herself with a confidence that radiated sensual promise, a promise given to most anyone who looked her way.

It was this and all of these things that enraptured her scholar, but it wasn't quite enough to draw him into her circle.

Not yet.

As he struggled to inhale, gaping her with his jaw working and his eyes wide, Tharrah took the initiative.

With smooth grace, she dropped to her knees, skirt flaring about her, and quickly leaned out to gather the scattered books, gentle but swift in her work.

"I am so sorry!" she gasped, stacking them carefully in her lap. She flicked her gaze up to him, an abashed expression on her face, eyes wide in apology. Deliberately and so quick he'd question his imagination later, Tharrah licked her lips like a nervous habit and rocked forward, bringing her mouth in close proximity to the belt that peeked through his parted scholar-robes.

It was but a moment, a moment followed immediately by her straightening with feet beneath her, the movement too brief to be suggestive or lewd, sparking an image in his poor, startled mind that would taunt him for years to come.

Laden with his forgotten prize, she offered the stack to him shyly. "My apologies, sir, I lost my footing, staring like a fool at all these old books," she murmured. "Please forgive me. And look," she added, gesturing with her chin to the top-most book, the one he'd been reading when she'd collided into him. "No harm done, not even a crinkled page."

And then she'd given him her warmest, most friendly smile.

If obtaining an erection came with a sound, she would swear with her dying breath that she heard it from him then.

He knew who she was, of course, had the moment he saw her, and now stammered his way through the rest of their conversation with a blush that seemed permanent by the time she'd departed, his promise of a future meeting extracted.

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone knew who the Lady D'Winter was, from laughing child to scowling King, they all knew.

There were no immoral expectations on either parties' part; it was simply a mutual admiration, she for the wealth of the scholar's collected information, and he for the aura she radiated. So he claimed, anyway.

She knew better, but she was also confident that if she so much as genuinely propositioned him he would probably explode into flames. Or melt into an incoherrent puddle of unrecognizable goo.

Which was why she'd introduced him to Taven. And Jassica. And Veema, and Veema's sister, Twen. He had learned quickly that it didn't matter that his robes were plain, or his fingers bare of gemmed rings or that he toted neither sword nor staff. All of her girls knew the value of a man, that it was never in his purse but always in his heart.

And, in this case, a fabulous, well-oiled mind.

Tharrah shifted in her chair, regretful in her expression, coming back from her memories of that first encounter. "I wish there were something I could do," she murmured to him, letting him see the true sadness in her eyes as he sat back on his heels before her. "Your intelligence is without peer, my dear, and if you could make that material and offer it in place of coin," she gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, "I would snatch that readily in payment, by the Light and gladly!"

 _And there it is,_  she thought in private glee. As easily as leading a mouse to cheese, she watched the gears click into place behind his eyes.

He licked his lips, a smile blooming across his humble, sweet features. "Maybe, my lady D'Winter," he said slowly, "that's something I could offer you... Though," and here, his happiness faded somewhat, "I don't know what you'd do with my-"

She raised her hand, her expression sharp and keen as she seemed to consider his offer. In his silence, she pretended to think long and deep about his suggestion.

"Perhaps..." she murmured, tapping the full shape of her bottom lip. "Hmm. I think, my lord, we may be able to work with such an arrangement after all. Provided my establishment would, of course, profit from such a thing...?"

His bright, joyous smile returned. "To be sure, my lady D'Winter. I may dress in humble cottons and plain clothes, but my knowledge is priceless to the Alliance-"

 _It's why you're always busy,_ she thought, _researching at all hours in that blessed library with every waking moment you have. Well, until now._ Now, at least  _some_  of those lucid stretches of time would belong to her, here. _  
_

With her left hand, she gestured again, offering the pen, inkwell, and contract on a wooden tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl, given to her by a silent servant who'd been at the ready for that very moment to come.

"Then sign here, young master-scholar," she beamed, "And we will make arrangements that suit us and us alone."

With a grin and a bounce of triumph, he jumped to his feet and signed the document without looking at it. Not that it held anything malicious, but still; he was very young, despite his learned years.

"Alright, alright," she laughed at him as he practically danced in place. "Now, young master. This page is about the payments in question." She scribbled down her terms, and brought it to bare beneath his eyes.

He read it quickly and reached for the pen. Then paused. And read her terms a second time. Then a third.

His mouth seemed to have gone dry; he was licking his lips.

"An oath, my lady?" he breathed, eyes going wide.

She tilted her head at him, letting him see the keen intellect hidden behind the cleavage, soft-spoken words and swaying hips. "How else would I hold your promise to bear?" she whispered kindly.

He swallowed. He knew, now, what she was, and contemplated the words beneath his pen yet again.

Finally, his grin returned, and he nodded, signing his name with a flourish.

"As you wish, my lady." He dropped the pen on the tray and brought her hand to his lips, grazing a kiss to her knuckles. "To be so bound by you and yours?" He laughed, showing her the man she knew he'd grow to be. "It's a bargain."

Sighing happily, relieved at last of her mask of manipulation and feminine wiles, she leaned back into her chair and ran her hands along its arms, as pleased as a cat with a bowl of rich cream. She watched as her newest client bounced off to the bevy of women who truly fancied him, discreetly encouraging them to distract him as much as they dare.

 _With good timing too, it would appear_ , she thought to herself, watching a familiar figure peel from the shadows behind her empty couch as soon as her scholar was out of sight.

"Nicely done, my lady," came the quiet remark, tinged with a smirk and a soft chuckle.

She laughed softly. "Really? I thought it almost crude how I drew that boy about," she replied, propping her chin up on her hand, elbow on the arm of her chair. "But it seemed to be what he needed; I'm simply glad to count him among my number. I have a feeling he'll be as invaluable to me as he is to the Royal family." She contemplated that a moment longer, then cleared her throat and sat up.

"Alright, Abavon," she murmured. "You've been patiently waiting. What news?"

Her devoted servant leaned back against the arm of her couch, gazing at her above the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. Arms crossed over his chest, his relaxed pose belied the seriousness of his eyes and the ready lines of his long-limbed, lanky body. He was all business now.

"Her house is empty," he said without further ado, voice emotionless but steady. "And with no sign of occupancy for some weeks now. I'd say three."

 _That_  got her attention.

With a snap of her head, she stared at him, eyes wide as fear gripped her, uncharacteristic and foreign.

"Three  _weeks_?" she blurted out.

Her mind began to reel, counting backward, pulling apart events in her head like they were pictures in an album.

_Three weeks, three weeks... That lines up with... nothing. No events nor festivals, no announcements, no-_

And then she stopped. She brought her attention to bear on her servant again, eyes narrowing.

"Out with it, Abavon," she snapped. "You know something else."

He gave her a little bow. "Of course."

"And?"

"The bracelet on the Forsaken, the fancy one with the spells upon spells woven like a tight, water-proof basket."

She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

_Don't say it._

"They know for sure it's hers, as of this morning."

She groaned. "Son of a-  _Maia._ "

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid little sister! What have you done_ now,  _you damned hermit?_


	3. The Wild Man

An attempt on the King's life was no small crime to be swept under the carpet and ignored at large. Tharrah knew her sister had nothing to do with it, knew it in her bones, and wouldn't let anyone accuse Maia without a fight.

And she had the army to do it.

Even the king knew this.

But then, there was the hitch:

Nobody, save a few of those closest to the women, knew Tharra D'Winter and Maia Morwyn were aware of each other, let alone related. It'd been a safeguard put in place for reasons neither could remember, but felt necessary to keep. And it'd always paid off.

Maia created beautiful ornaments to wear, bespell, and bedazzle, and Tharra used her brothel to collect people and information that was often beyond price. It was a unique arrangement that often fed one into the other, lucrative, or, in Tharrah's case, progressive.

But beneath all that was something simpler, a truth searing in its purity: they were sisters, and they loved each other.

They could share thoughts across a room with barely moving lips and subtle body language. They could stare into each others' eyes, say a word and instantly flash the same memory behind their gazes.

They almost always knew what the other was thinking, and they always knew what the other was feeling.

It was so simple, basic, and straight-forward. They would do anything for each other, without question or hesitation.

But for the first time in her life, Tharrah felt pegged into a corner by their so-called 'safeguard'.

She was pacing in her bedroom, ignoring the small fete being held in the rooms below, the music that drifted through her window, the laughter, and the distinct clink of coins. For once, her mind was crunching uselessly at the problem. She had no idea what to do, and it was not something that happened very often.

"You've the funds to do anything you like, my lady," came Abavon's purr, leaning against the wall and trying very hard not to stare at Meaghan, Tharrah's body servant. He was failing, of course, and at any other time, Tharrah would have teased him for letting his cool demeanor crack so easily.

Meaghan, of course, pretended to ignore him  _and_  his posturing. She'd have succeeded in convincing even Tharrah if her eyes didn't keep darting to his shadow every moment he looked away from her. Somewhere, though, the courtesan had enough mind to think,  _Poor Abavon. You are in for quite the chase._

Meaghan covered a distracted trip with a sudden sinking of knees, reaching out quickly to pick a book up from the floor.

 _I take that back_ , Tharrah reconsidered, hiding a smirk as she strode to her wardrobe.  _Make your desires plain and you'll have her on her back and heart open before the sun rises._

She yanked open the ornately carved, wooden doors and began to dig into the back, beyond the summer gowns she kept here for easy access in this warmer weather. Finding a large leather travel bag and a worn, patched, but otherwise well-made cloak, she withdrew both and tossed them to her bed.

"You know as well as I that a majority of those funds are watched," came her reply. "Per the agreements and arrangements we've made with our allies. I can't use that money, but I don't need to." She began to pile shockingly plain travel clothes next to the bag, clothes made of leather and cotton of various shades, and a pair of knee-high boots with well-used soles, the kind that made no sound on pavement and grass alike. "Speed costs money," she added, "but money takes work. It _will_ take more work, but I'll also get my speed, and quietly too." A pair of daggers followed the boots. And then a wicked looking long-blade.

Abavon watched, clearly amused. His blue eyes sparkled above his sable beard and well-groomed moustache, his curly black hair peeking beneath the rim of his hat. "Are you sure, my lady? Soil those pretty hands?" He leaned over and picked up the belt, letting the daggers dangle high in the air. "When was the last time you even touched th-"

In a moment, she'd disappeared, with one suddenly missing blade pressed against his leather-clad spine.

The man was wise enough to go silent, though his shoulders did shake with quiet, impressed laughter.

Tharrah rolled her eyes and tossed the blade to Meaghan, who scowled at him.

"Meg," Tharrah sighed, deciding to handle two birds with one maneuver. "Be a dear and cut those fine clothes from that body of his until he's naked, mmm?"

 _That_  stopped the laughter, and he all but spluttered his indignation, backing hastily away from a suddenly grinning, delighted Meaghan.

"While that answers your questions," she continued over the ruckus those two were quickly making, "I hope it also keeps any more from sprouting up."

In a few minutes, she was dressed and packed and heading out the door, leather bag over her shoulder, her silk dress and flimsy slippers piled by her bed, replaced upon her skin with cotton and leather. "Meg, don't forget to clean up the mess you've made," she remarked, stepping over a pair of shredded leather pants.

There was a startled yelp from a particular pile of limbs amidst the scattered pillows near her favorite divan.

"And please," she added, "no blood if you can manage it," as she closed the door considerately behind her.

_I wouldn't be surprised to find them knocked up and married by the time I get back..._

Her servants, Meaghan especially, were an attentive lot. They hardly need direction or instruction, and her generosity kept them discreet and self-learning; by that, it meant the best and most attentive among them taught the next servant beneath them, and then they taught the one beneath them, and so on, until everyone took cues from the pyramid of ranks and functioned with very little authority and much like a well-oiled machine. Everyone had their own little portion of the House they were responsible for, from kitchen to bedrooms to dining hall to stables, and best yet, the roster constantly rotated. If one fell ill or couldn't attend as they were allotted to, it wasn't difficult to find someone who knew the empty slot and could take up the position until things went back to normal. It made for a well running business and devoted, adoring employees that indefinitely smudged the line between professionalism and family.

So, because of this, by the time Tharrah was down the hall, down the back stairs and through the hidden door that led from the kitchen to the private stables, her black Talbuk was brushed, saddled, packed, and waiting for her not four steps from her egress.

Jonah, one of the few permanent position-holders, was holding the placid creature's reins. The stable-boy bowed as she mounted. She tucked a gold coin into his hands as she withdrew the reins from his grip.

"Going silent, my lady?" he inquired politely.

She nodded, leaning over to kiss his brow. "Yes. Spread the word. I am entertaining at a private estate for the season. You know the run." He bowed again.

"Yes, my lady." He backed away, opening a hidden passage through a stone wall. She passed him a second parcel: a thick, sealed letter.

"To Meaghan, when she recovers. Give it to her in the morning, and mind you, she'll be in my chambers. So knock first. Loudly." And with a grin and a snicker, she ducked her head and trotted through the stone archway. The stone grated shut behind her, and soon she was beyond the city walls and on her way to Menethil.

She had considered going by boat from the get-go, but securing passage in Stormwind aboard any of them, especially in time of war, would have raised a fuss and red flags and would most assuredly have gained her a tail or two. Having so many allies and clients and customers to both businesses was quite lucrative, but the price was being looked at like an investment. Sure, her stocks were high and she was gaining value by the minute, but the fear that she'd topple and burn was a constant one. Not to Tharrah herself, of course, but to all those that dealt with her. It was an unfounded fear, one that she made sure to encourage even with all its failings. Folks afraid your downfall would cause insurmountable damage were more apt to keep you alive, even if Tharrah had safety nets on top of safety nets to keep such a fall from happening.

Even then, her death, should it ever happen, would trigger a series of events that would bury every secret she'd ever bought, sold, or traded. She would keep her word, but again, no one else really needed to know that.

It was late on the road; night had fallen, and the well-lit roads were all patrolled by vigilant soldiers for miles outside of the city. Mindful of this, Tharrah kept to the hidden paths that paralleled the road, her wide-brimmed hat and high, snug coat collar keeping most of her features masked in shadow. The fall rain was helpful in that, too; there were many garbed as she, doing their best to keep dry in the downpour.

The unpaved paths, though, made travel messy. Thankfully, her mount was a sweet-footed thing, loping along in a smooth, ground-devouring canter.

It was impossible to guess what her sister had been up to. Maia had always been a loner, even as children, she was the dreamer and the easy-going, solitary child. Tharrah was more of a schemer, able to charm her way through anything, and never fell into anything without careful planning.

Unless, of course, it was an emergency.

 _Like now_ , she thought.

Despite the weather, she made it to the half-drowned harbor city, booking discreet passage on a ship headed north. It would be a wait, she knew, but it was the quietest way to get where she needed, and from there, it was a path-jump and a wander in the woods near the walls of Gilneas to get to her wayward sister's quiet little home.

 

* * *

 

This was not something she anticipated.

Her head still hurt, and it was dark. The air smelled of enclosed earth, wet dirt, and other things much less pleasant. The surface under her cheek felt like wool, maybe rough cotton, and, with a careful lifting of lashes, the courtesan found herself alone.

_At last._

She sat up carefully, trying to reorganize her memories and remember what  _exactly_  had happened. There was the memory of the shore-boat, the splash of water as she jumping into the surf, leading her suddenly sheepish mount to the sandy shore not a few feet away.

 _Camp_ , she recalled, rubbing her aching temple, surprised there was no blood on her fingers (because she should smell it, somewhere...?) when she withdrew them. The light in here was non-existent, save for a small hole dug up through the roof of the cave, and another hole against the far wall, trickling through the tunnel borrowed into its expanse.

Camp, on the coast to the south, she thought, of Maia's home. She'd thought to dry off and rest up before stumbling northward, but then...

 _Teeth gleaming in the darkness,_ she mused, closing her eyes.  _Claws that tore and snarls that pulled at my hair..._ The shriek of her poor, poor Talbuk. A squall and splatter of blood. Ripping flesh. Dragging body...

 _And then_... And then...

Her brow furrowed. Gods, her head ached.

 _And then what?_  she struggled, trying to move in the darkness. Her hand came in contact with something warm and sticky. She looked down, and came back with a palm coated in gore and blood.

Like a naive little girl, she started to scream before she'd even registered what she was seeing.

In an instant, a dirty hand was clamped over her mouth and she was pinned against the dirt wall. Writhing, she kicked and bit, fear closing in sharp and quick around her. She clawed at the dirty knuckles, dug her nails into the wrist the pinned her in place.

 _"Quit screaming, stupid cow_ ," came the barren, harsh whisper.  _"Or wolves will_ hear _-!"_

His voice was rough, the syllables of Common wedged together with the vocal cords of a beast, canine snarls, growls, and low croons. The eyes glaring at her, though, were completely human. Human, and sensible. The face they peered out of was filthy, though, to the point it was almost impossible to discern the color of flesh for dirt. Still, it was a vision that brought silence and stemmed the fear, and he released her after she nodded at his request for quiet.

He withdrew slowly, peering through the low opening in the wall, crouching. He was dirty from head to toe, she realized now, and was the source of the horrid smell she noticed earlier. His hair, dark as far as she could tell, was rank and unkempt, sticking out in several directions, drifting greasily about his shoulders as he shifted lower.

Her eyes widened as she took in his details; gashes, bruises, and scars meandered down his back, texturing his skin from neck to haunches. A dingy bit of cloth, bound to his narrow hips with a bit of rope, was the only bit of clothing he had to speak of, keeping his nudity bound to less vulnerable parts. When he dropped back to lean on his heels, his lanky arms balancing his crouch on large, long-fingered hands, he peered at her again from the dim light.

"Lucky," he murmured, voice made of gravel, creeping over to her, hands to knees to toes. "No danger." He reached towards her, pausing when she lunged backwards and hugged herself tightly.

The flash of guilt that flinched across his features was almost anguished enough to make her apologize, but Tharrah found she couldn't speak. She didn't move again, however, when he reached out again, withdrawing from the shadows the flesh and body she'd screamed over minutes before.

It was a hare, skinned and gutted, and offered to her a second time.

 _"Raw, know_ ," he said in the barest whisper,  _"all can do, tiI can get you away."_  He held it up to her, groping in the pile of skins nearby. A hilt was pressed into her hand; it was one of her knives.

Squatting next to her, he took her free hand and pressed it to the leathers beside her resting place.  _"Tried save what could of ... of yourrrr pack,"_  he mumbled, the 'r' sound peeling from his teeth like a soft growl, his words otherwise barely above a breath.  _"Sworrrrd 's wrenched, blades good. Large satchel, boots, cloak, brrrrush..."_

She struggled to comprehend what he was, curled over, crouching before her, trying to accept the situation and the ...  _person_  ... presented to her, a man who acted like a dog,  _sounded_ like a dog, caked in soil and filth, offering her words and food and what  _seemed_  like reassurance...

He gazed back at her, at her unflinching stare and the blade, motionless in her hand. He gestured with his chin, before pulling back to the other side of the den.

 _"Eat_ ," she heard him whisper from the dark.  _"StrRrrength, for later."_

She looked down again, at the skinned animal in her hand, the knife in the other.

She ignored the former and, instead, lunged across the expanse of dirt, her thoughts finally clear, blade up and arms outstretched, ready to fight for her freedom.


	4. The Beginning

Either he was ready for it or warned by some silent alarm, his dodge was at odds with his appearance; graceful, smooth, and well-practiced. His expression was surprised, eyes wide, his inhale sharp and startled. He wasn't quite fast enough, however, as her blade, pushed effortlessly aside by his careful nudge at her wrist, skimmed across flesh and sliced a few millimeters into his skin, leaving a short, shallow gash.

And that was when things got very interesting.

An explosion of fur and flesh; that's all she could take in, an increase in mass and darkness, bubbling forth from around her blade and her cut. It distracted them both, but him for a moment longer.

She leapt at the opening she saw before, half crawling, half wriggling her way towards the light. Ten heartbeats and her head broke into open air. Ten more and she was on her feet-

-and gaping at the snarling, leering faces of wolves, wolves with twisted jaws and seething grins, their eyes focused on her, eyes that brimmed with madness and hunger.

If they'd been surprised by her sudden appearance, the emotion had been replaced by something far more savage. A dozen at least, matted fur and rancid smell, they began to stalk towards her on limbs that were more man-like than lupine.

 _Worgen_.

The word wasn't accompanied by the mental image of King Varian declaring the children of Gilneas as allies and lost kin, or the few haunted-looking strangers that had begun to metriculate through the courts, towns, cities, and brothels of her world. These weren't those people.

These creatures weren't people at all, something she noted as they loped nearer. They were more wolf than human, more monster than wolf, the kind that that raged among their own kind ( _Cannibals-!_  she remembered), that tore apart their prey to feed on screams and flesh alike.

And she was standing in a meadow full of them, armed only with her life and her dagger.

As true fear, the fear that paralyzed to make way for death, settled into her nerves and rendered her immobile, force came from behind her and shoved her forward. Thankfully, it was only wet earth and grass that met her as she hit the ground, but the weight that settled on her threatened to crush the life from her.

 _"Stop!"_ at her ear, close enough that only she could hear. Despite her attempt to escape, the sound of her supposed-captor sank through the fear. She stopped thrashing, breathing hard, trying to control herself.

 _"No, don't stop completely!"_ he hissed. She couldn't see him, she could only feel his breath on her ear, the pressure of him against her spine.

 _"Fight, rrrRRresist, but... prrRRetend-_ " He growled in approval as she did her best to accomodate.

But then she felt pressure against her ass, and her fighting became real again. "What are you  _doing_!" she yelled, trying to throw an elbow, panic creeping into her throat. What was he doing? Was he going to-? He couldn't  _seriously_  believe that-

He shoved her down again, her chest flat to the earth. Again, his voice was hissing into her ear.

 _"Wolves respect me,"_ he explained. She could hear an apology in his voice.

Oh god.

 _"Not real, will not hurt, swear it. But wolves must... believe..."_ There was the sound of tearing fabric, but it was only her belt, and the bottom hem of her shirt. What...?

 _"Sorry... but... pretend...? You must, or they will know..._ " And then he pushed, hard, against the seat of her pants.

The pressure was hard, rapid, and she was suddenly reminded of getting swatted on the butt by her mother, through her dress, when she'd managed to steal a forbidden bit of candy from the kitchen counter. Her mother had used a wooden spoon, and though it hadn't really hurt, she wailed and cried like she had-

Oh no.  _Oh dear_. Was  _this_  to be like that?

Suddenly, she realized what she needed to do.

The last thing Tharrah D'Winter ever expected to do to save her life was pretend to get a good thrashing in the middle of the woods, with a wild man for an acting partner and a collection of rapt, drooling werewolves for an audience. At first it was just screaming, pretending that all the wild humping and thrashing was the rape it was presented to be. And then she had to temper it from screaming to sobbing, and then keep the sobbing from evolving into full blow, hysterical laughter.

At least the tears were easy.

Her savior had been right (she was beginning to recognize him for what he was). As soon as they realized that she wasn't meant as food or their entertainment, the wild worgen lost interest; she was not for them, she was for their leader.

Eventually, with a gasping, wheezing, guttural howl that she supposed was to be the grand biological finale, their act ended with him half collapsing over her, breathing hard, her hips effectively pounded into the dirt.

They were alone again.

She couldn't stifle the chuckle that escaped her, though it was quiet enough for his ears alone to catch it.

"Oh dear... have you any idea... how long it's been... since I've had to fake such... antics... publically?" she managed to choke out, her shoulders shaking in irrational mirth.

There was only silence from him, silence filled with shame as he withdrew.

When she sat up and opened her eyes, she wasn't surprised by what she saw; it made perfect sense, of course, that he be a child of Gilneas.

More human than the worgen that had threatened her, the man before her was lankier, muscled and upright, though his shoulders sagged with human emotion, his face far more expressive. His hair, dirty and wild as a human, was the same as a wolf, though it seemed more fitting in the guise of black fur.

He dug back into the entrance of his den, offering her the pack she'd left behind and another of her blades. He withdrew his hands as he sat back, afraid to look at her, the feral visage at odds with the guilt on his face. Tharrah fought the urge to reach for him.

His lupine face bore a pair of soft brown eyes, eyes that had seen too much and wept too little. The last of her mirth melted away, the courtesan stealing a glance about the empty meadow as she took her belongings. He still couldn't look at her.

 _This won't do_ , she thought.

Maybed it was the hilarity of what they'd done, or the joy that she'd survived it, or the gratitude she felt bubbling up in her, but she couldn't let him think he hadn't done well.

He flinched when her hands touched his face, too afraid to hurt her to thrash away, frozen in spot and staring at her like she was the predator and he something much more helpless than what he was.

If there was anything Tharrah was good at, besides her ability to twist her hips or seduce a fellow, it was the ability to sense when a person needed comfort. Her embrace wasn't always wanted for the sensual, her council not always sought for the secrets she kept. Sometimes it was much more basic than that.

She brought his head down to hers, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the top of his nose. "It's alright," she murmured, cupping his cheeks, rubbing along his jaw. "Thank you for saving me, though..." she added, "I don't think this is the first time. Was it you that saved me from the pack, when I stumbled into them those nights ago?"

The whine that escaped him, so faint and puppy-like, simply proved how lost he was. He crouched down and turned his back to her, gripping one of her wrists and drawing it over his shoulder. Understanding, she mounted his back as he dropped to all fours, her arms winding about his chest, her knees gripping his lower back.

 _"Get you away,"_  he grumbled faintly.  _"Safe, before wolves rrrrRReturn."_

Tharrah agreed, gripping him fiercely. "Sounds like a good idea to me," she said, bracing herself.

He landed from his leap with the grace of a cat, scattering rock and dirt as he brought them down the edge of a shallow cliff, into the grass, and soon racing into the dense trees. Tharrah kept her head down, tucked between her shoulders as he sped away.

Her mind buzzed with questions even as she accepted her circumstances. Alone in Forsaken territory, clinging to the back of a Worgen that was running to ancestors' knew where, trusting a stranger and still without any information as to where her sister was.

"Do you know the coast north of the Gilneas gates?" she asked against the wind. She felt his resounded growl. "I need to get there... can you take me?"

His answer was to turn sharply, pound past trees and turf, before briefly breaking cover to the sound of waves and the smell of ocean. Nodding to herself, she squeezed him in gratitude, pressing her cheek between his furred shoulderblades as he continued to run, ignoring the smell of neglect as the wind blew it away.

_I'm coming, Maia. Please be there._


	5. The Rescue of Whom?

Braeburn knew he was no wild worgen the likes of which ate their elderly and their wounded. He knew he was above them. At least, he knew it instinctually; he hadn't fully acknowledge it until he rescued Tharrah.

She told him her name as they ran, her arms tight about him, her body so tense it barely jostled when he moved. It was distracting him from willing away the unintended response he'd had when he'd pretended to rape her before the ragged pack. While it hadn't been much more than a vocal show, his insistent humping against her soft, leather-clad backside had been suggestive enough to arouse him. He knew he couldn't help it, but it shamed him regardless, her laughter in the aftermath making him feel pathetic; he hated himself for that too.

The running helped, accomplishing much in the simple act; it got her further away from danger, it helped him clear his mind, and it kept her close for just a little longer. It'd been ages, it seemed, since he'd felt a human hand that hadn't tried to hurt him or push him away.

 _But I deserve that,_  he thought desperately. The memory of her hands on his face, unrepulsed, still made his nerves burn, pleasant but frightening.

That _is something I_ don't _deserve._

They reached the coast within the hour and soon they were running north along it. His nose caught the smell of human, hybrids like himself and the normal unchanged, corpses that both walked and rotted, orcs, true wolves... By scent alone, his sure footing kept them away from danger, picking a path that avoided any trouble, one of the only gifts bestowed upon him by this wild curse.

They reached the abandoned house by nightfall.

He was reluctant to leave her, so when she slid from his back and didn't dismiss him, he didn't go. Her kindness, her simple touch, burned inside him, woke up a protective, desperate, needy piece of him that craved any more of it she'd offer, and while a part of him chastised this desperation, most of him accepted that the need was simple and normal; he hadn't allowed himself human contact since the Gates fell. Why wouldn't he want to bask in whatever kindness he found, for as long as he could?

So it was that he kept close as she made her way over the wall, climbing over the moss covered stones with an ease of body that he envied. He lept, all angles and tendons, and scrambled briefly for purchase, before landing on the other side.

His nose twitched.  _What was that?_  Still in his feral form, he sniffed the air, then the ground, chasing a smell that had him perked and curious. This was how Tharrah found him when she came back out.

Generous lips curved in a half smile, trying to hide the worry in her eyes, she asked, "Smell anything interesting?" Her tone suggested respect and a bit of playfulness, but he could sense her fear for her kin, and the buried hope that he could answer her with news.

Pleased that he could give her something useful, he nodded, pulling his lips back in a grim, lupine smile.

 _"ForRRRsaken,"_  he said, pointing to tracks in the dirt.  _"Go into the house, mingle with anotherrRr scent..."_ To reassure himself that he was right about the second smell, he crept closer to her, on all fours, crouching at her feet to rub his nose briefly against her thigh.  _"Scent like you, not you... sisterRrr..."_  he growled softly.

Her widening eyes stirred something in him, something that felt like pride but sang much purer. He put the memory away to study later, continuing to sample the soil, the stones, the timber of the house.

 _"Smell none of fear... no fear for life... ForrrRRrsaken was fresh-dead, and female... Her scent mingles with living human.. She was ... frrrrriend to sister?"_ he snarled softly, brow furrowing in confusion, but his nose never lied and by the shock on Tharrah's face, he'd been correct so far. Shaking his head, still no understanding, following the mixed scents into Maia's abandoned studio. It was here that he finally hit pay dirt.

"Her sketchbook!" Tharrah gasped, taking the battered, weathered thing from Braeburn's transformed hands. Immediately flipping pages, she ran her hands over the many designs, the notes, the fanciful sketches that recorded most of Maia's finished work and projects, metalsmithing notes, and random thoughts.

She sat with unconscious dignity besides the firepit in Maia's front yard, and her companion watched her fight tears as she struggled to read. Pretending to be interested in the same thing, he slunk close, curled up next to her knee, and tentatively pressed his cheek to her leg. He felt her lean into him and almost died from bliss; she was shaking, tense, and when she let his warmth seep into her, she slowly began to relax. If he could purr, he would have.

_Look at me... content to be a woman's pet!_

He ignored that part of him; she would be gone soon ( _Why wouldn't she leave as soon as she could?_ ), and he would ache for human presence, his solitude spoiled. He would soak up as much of her as he could, he decided, his animal pride be damned.

She was reading under her breath, the fear easing from her, her focus returned.

"What were you doing, Maia?" she murmured, finally at the end of the book, where the designs were all but gone, replaced by sigils and marks of a completely alien nature. Tharrah frowned more, tracing the notes besides the language, reading quotes, both foreign and known, side but side to syllables she couldn't read. Of a sudden, she straightened, struck by epiphany.

"She was learning this," she said, startled. Pouring over the notes, she eventually realized that she was looking at an archaic dialect of Troll-speak.

 _"And how do you know this?"_  grumbled Braeburn, eyeing Tharrah suspiciously.

She cleared her throat, shifty-eyed, and pointed to a few pages earlier.

"See? It says, 'Older version of current Troll language; archaic but passable, remember to use modern inflection as much as possible.'" She was right, it was plainly written. Still, the Worgen sensed she wasn't telling him everything. He considered feeling hurt by this, but decided that was ridiculous; who cared what she did or didn't know?

After a few more moments, she stood, sighing, and shoved the sketchbook into her pack. "Alright," she mumbled. "If this is all I have to go on, I'm not going to linger over it here."

Then, despite her confident assessment, the weather decided at that moment to, literally, rain on her metaphorical parade.

Swearing loudly, she ran under an overhang of roof, followed closely by a wet, newly-shifted dog-smelling man. Peering out from under her shelter, she glared at the rolling dark clouds and the creeping twilight, and made decision.

"We're staying here tonight." She eyed the Worgen. "And you too. But first... Follow me."

And so he did, as obedient as a pup to this pale-haired woman, privately marveling at his own deliberate servitude, before banishing that thought to the same place as that first pride-stricken internal monologue. Lost in his thoughts, though, he was caught completely off-guard when Tharrah not  _only_  tore off his loincloth, but shoved her boot against his rump so that he toppled face first into the secluded hotspring at the back of the house.

It was fairly comical; granted, she could have surprised him with sleek speed alone, but she was stronger than she looked, stocky beneath those curves, endowed with muscle that one would have to feel beneath her skin, instead of see from her surface. No, he might have put up a fight if he'd been aware what she intended, but slunk forward and completely trusting, he didn't stand a chance.

Complete with a dog-like ' _Yipe!_ ' and a pathetic flailing of arms, Braeburn was submerged in the steaming, sulphur-smelling water. When he surfaced, hands moving to the ledge to hoist himself up, he was met with a vision of black leather boots.

"No," she admonished, shaking a finger at him. She crouched low, offering a bowl of soap-and-sand, and a scrubbing cloth. "I have no clothes for you, not that you'd need it with your natural protection as a wolf-man, but I'll not have you in this house smelling like a wet dog." She gave him his loincloth, the fabric daintly hooked by the tip of her pinky finger. "You will wash this too, and you  _will change form_  and scrub  _that_  part of you too." She brought her face nose to nose to him. "Understood?" she growled.

Even if he didn't already adore her for being so nice ( _firm; admit it_ , he thought helplessly,  _you seem to enjoy when she gives you commands)_ to him, that last tone all but made his knees buckle; if the other wild Worgen had seen this little incident, not only would they make  _her_  their queen, but they'd promptly eat him right after making him abdicate his little throne.

She strode from the room, leaving him to scrub and claw (she left him a wide-toothed comb with a very suggestive brushing gesture aimed at his tangled hair). When he emerged, scrubbed pink, whining faintly as he tried to comb his mess of hair, it was only after he entered the bedroom and saw her gaping at ... him ... that he realized he'd forgotten his only bit of clothing. With a spin and a stride that had him back and covered in no time, the questions in her face had him doing something he hadn't done in  _years_.

 _Years? Maybe longer than that,_ he thought glumly. It wasn't that he'd never blushed before, it was just... his memory from before ( _the Before..._ ) was getting foggier and he sat down to contemplate it too long, it would simply depress him further. He pushed the thoughts aside, adjusting his humble bit of cloth, wondering if she was going to-

"-did the change do all... all  _that_?" she finally blurted out, her eyes wide as dinner plates, shock in her voice. "I mean, it's not that I've never seen... I mean, I just... It's very nice, I mean to say, but that part at the ... Is that...?"

Moving as fast as he could without running, he sat on the bare wood floor before the fireplace, shoulders hunched, and tugged angrily at his hair with the comb. He considered his many responses to what she was asking about.

 _How do you explain it? They say the Druids have got the Worgen tamed and whole, completely returned to human as they will it, battle-ready Worgen-folk when exposed to danger._ Without meaning to, Braeburn sighed aloud.  _I had no such luck; I sought my peace on my own... And I screwed it up. I am not the me that was. I am... something altogether different._

"I'm sorry," came a soft voice at his shoulder, so sudden it had him jolting in surprise. Soft, gentle brown eyes in a feminine face, full of such compassion it almost had him keening. He shook himself, then looked away from her.

 _"No,"_  he said after a moment's silence.  _"Change was hard, had to come back to my own skin without the tree-huggers,"_  he spat. But his shoulders went lax, his gravel-voice shallow with regret.  _"Skin isn't the same. Body isn't the same."_  He held up a lean, long arm, flexed slender, calloused fingers.  _"LeanerrrRrr,"_  he growled.  _"Taller, stronger."_ He stretched out a leg and glared at one foot.  _"Biggerrrr..."_

And then he blushed, looking away, curling his leg back under him again.  _"...and, in some places, defoorRRRrrrrrmed."_  He couldn't say exactly what, and he knew he didn't need to; she'd seen for herself.  _"Not quite Wolf,"_ he sighed.  _"And not quite human."_

When she stayed quiet, he went back to yanking at the knots in his hair. After a minute or so, though, her hands plucked the comb from his fingers, and she said, "You don't need to be so violent."

Though he protested and twisted away in the beginning, Braeburn was soon quiet and at the mercy of the woman he'd managed to save. With careful touches and tender, patient attention, Tharrah went about untangling his hair, commenting about the color, the texture, and how it appeared to have grown like a mane to the middle of his shoulderblades. And when he tried to pull away, embarassed by his features, she brought him back to sit in place, her grip firm on his shoulders.

He wondered at this strength he saw in her, the makings of a leader, and wondering, for not the first time since he'd met her, why she'd traveled here on her own.

"That's enough self-pity from you," she said sternly. "You seem unhappy with your body and your lot, but you're going to have to pretend you can do nothing about it. That is, other than to accept it." She tugged his ear; he gave a soft yip, trying to glower at her and failing miserably beneath the sincerity of her gaze. "I mean it, wolf," she stated, her tone flat. "I'll have no more of this from you. You hate yourself, you hate your fate, fine. I think you've done plenty of both since before I came along, and I'm here to tell you:  _that's enough_. I can't go wandering through the wilderness on my own, not with things as they are, and if your nose has proven anything, it's that I need you in this... this  _quest_  I'm on. You came with me when you could have left long ago, which I'm assuming means you  _want_  to change how things are."

Braeburn ducked his head; he couldn't deny that anymore.

She nodded, turning his head so she could continue with his hair. "I thought as much. Since that's the case, I'll take you with me as far as you'd like. But you can leave whenever you want to." Nimble fingers began to braid without even thinking about it. "It's the least I can do," she murmured at last. "For, you know ... saving my life."

With a shiver of pleasure he had no idea he could still experience ( _...when was the last time...?_ ), the Worgen began to wonder if what she said was true at all anymore.

He was beginning to think more and more that it was she that was meant to save  _him_.


	6. Further Details

With a facade of smiles and motherly insistence, Tharrah was eventually able to convince her Worgen that not only was it alright for him to sleep inside the house, but that she'd feel better if he slept in the same room. After much pacing and scrounging about, he built a snug nest of blankets and pillows before the fireplace and burrowed into the mess, only to spread it all out when sleep finally claimed him.

She knew it from the snores. Sitting up carefully in her sister's bed, she peered across the room at the sprawled form on the hearth, covering her mouth to keep from giggling. Long limbs spread-eagle, head tilted back, snoring softly, sharp nose pointed skyward, it was getting harder and harder to reconcile this creature with the dank, dirty thing that had melted from the shadows in that den this morning.

The anger in him still knotted his shoulders, made him move with a tight, controlled jerk that couldn't be comfortable. Tharrah winced, understanding after tonight that the rage in him was all aimed at himself, a self-hate that worried her. When her hands had tied off the plait she'd woven into his hair, she had promised herself that she'd find a place for him in this world. If that was what he needed, and he seemed to, she would do her best to help. It was the very least she could do.

_I don't know what yet, but-_

A flicker of thought flashed through her mind, a self-depricating thing that made her blush:

_You can always add him to your small stable of young lads at your establishment-_

She shook her head and bit back an angry swear word, furious at herself for blushing as much as for the thought. "What's wrong with me?" she muttered, reaching to the edge of the bed to light a small candle.

Besides it, on the bedside table, was Maia's sketchbook. With as much a need to distract herself as to worry at a puzzle she didn't seem to understand, she pulled the book in her lap and opened it to the entries she'd seen earlier.

 _Troll... of all the languages to fascinate Maia now_... Tharrah shook her head again, wondering yet again for the bonds born and forged between sisters.

She glanced again at the lightly hairy, mostly naked man across her hearth.  _And now someone else knows_. It wasn't his fault, either; that nose of his was quite impressive.

Her palms ran over the pages again, feeling the slight raise of ink and the slightly rough texture of paper. Maia preferred a richer parchment than regular writing stock; when she illustrated with paint or inks, the paper was less likely to buckle or shred. Tharrah smiled a little, remembering. She turned a page and let herself actually read this time, rather than breeze through it for the sake of her sister's privacy. It was a hard habit to break, to read the writing and not just stare at the artwork; this wasn't the first time she'd held this book in her hands, and she knew the rules.

It was different now. She read in earnest, just before the notes on Troll-speak began, and tried to piece together the story of what had happened. She turned another page and this one had intense, intricate images of spellwork bound to metal, jewelcrafting at its finest, showcasing a design that would take a fortnight to make.

 _A spell of illusion so tight it would take intense scrutiny to penetrate_ , she read. Frowning, she wondered, then, how the Forsaken girl had been so completely exposed. She read on, watching the notes combine with the glyphs of the language Maia had become obsessed with, and wondered again what the two had in common. Her sister was usually so keen on writing her thoughts and laying things out, almost as if she knew someone else's eyes would eventually stray across these pages.

 _"Everything is complete,"_  Tharrah read softly, unaware she spoke out loud.  _"I've done my best to learn as much as I can in the time I've been given, and I think I've got a good handle on it. Jensen says otherwise, that I'm a prodigy or some such, and part of me hopes I'm right."_

The entry was interrupted by a florid drawing, a shadowed profile with a long, lean face and a large nose; a male Troll in vague portrait, lovingly drawn. Tharrah's eyes widened as she continued to read.

_"I must find him, I must, and tell him that I'm sorry, that I only meant to save him, and that I want to know him better. I want to tell him that that night meant more to me than just sweat and gratitude, and I want to tell him this in his own damn language."_

Tharrah set the book down and pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes as she let the words sink in.

 _My foolish, stupid, beautiful sister has gone and followed her heart again, and it seems that it all belongs to some Troll she met a handful of times and somehow wronged_ and _bedded?_  If  _that_  was in the journal, made her encounters with this fellow were too?

She paused, hands poised to flip a few pages back, wondering if now she was indeed invading her sister's privacy. Curiosity won, as well as an irrational notion that she was only doing more research to better find out where Maia had gone.

It'd happened a while back, that or there was a lot to write; she had to turn back a long way to find where she started to mention his name...

 

* * *

 

Braeburn woke when the sunlight began to flood through parted curtains, bands of light marking the floor and the far wall. He'd slept better than he could remember, deep and sound and without interruption.

Stretching languidly, he stood quietly as he peered over to his still-sleeping mistress.

Tharrah had fallen asleep reading, lying on her belly, feet towards the head of the bed, cheek against the open pages of her sister's sketchbook. Her hands were tucked under her chin, blankets tangled around her hips, her face relaxed and at ease in a way he didn't see when she was awake and restless.

It occured to him that it was her worry and care for her sister that made her so wired, but he suspected it was more than that.

Wanting to be useful, he scurried silently around the room, tidying up and packing as he went, and when the sun rose full above the horizon, warming the room despite the dying fire and the cold, wet night, he went searching for more to wear than his loincloth.

The magics of Worgen transformation, it seemed, carried over into the clothing said Worgen wore, be they in human for or werewolf; the clothing would change shape to adapt, and it was theorized that this was because of how close clothing was to the body when a Worgen changed. Trying not invade Tharrah's sister's home too much, he followed his nose until he found a bundle of leather at the bottom of her closet.

"She was probably collecting that for me," came the voice from the bed. He stood up too quickly, cracking his head on the doorframe. Her laugh softened the injury, and he offered her the leathers he still had in his hands. She took them from him, still smiling.

"And what were  _you_  doing?" she asked him, undoing the bundle, shaking out the soft skins.

She still looked a little sleepy eyed, awake enough to where he wondered if he hadn't woken her while he'd wandered about. Her soft hair was tousled about her shoulders, her loose blouse, the only thing she'd worn while she slept, hanging off one, a few buttons undone. Her cheeks were rosy and her face was still relaxed.

She was holding up a few pieces, eyeing the size, the color and the knap. "These are rather fine," she was mumbling. "Easy to work with... mmm." She winked at him. "I suspect you were wanting more than that little thing for clothing, now that you're traveling with me?"

He nodded; how did she manage to pluck thoughts from his head like that?

Some of what he thought must have come through his expression, for she laughed at him again, saying, "I was going to suggest it anyway, silly wolf." Chuckling, she beckoned him over. "Now, stop fussing and let me get your fit..."

By the time she'd finished stitching together a comfortably fitting vest and a pair of pants (she had to get creative with the patching, grumbling the whole while at him and his obscenely long legs), and a pair of soft-soled boots, the sun had just crossed into noon-day. It was still plenty of time for travel, and Tharrah was insistent.

Stowing his boots, she gestured at him. "Do you mind?" she asked, her question sincere. He shook his head and, for the first time in human form for as long as he could remember, he gave her a small, shy smile.

 _"Don't mind_ ," he grizzled, his voice gravel over stone.  _"FasterrRrr this way, rrrmm?"_

She nodded, hoisting her pack, and, with one last look at her sister's house, clambered onto his back as he shifted into his lupine form. She checked the stitching on his clothes, pleased to see the magics affecting them without trouble, before looping her arms around his neck, bracing her thighs over his hips.

 _"Southshore?"_ he growled, expecting an affirmative. He felt her twitch in surprise.

"Southshore?" she echoed. "No, wolf. Southshore was destroyed around the time Gilneas fell."

He felt the world fall out from under him, a pit of emptiness that resounded through his body.  _Memories swept in, incomplete and bloody, visions of his Worgen claws rending flesh even as it screamed-_

"Naught but ruins now," she murmured. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Did... did you have kin there?"

Stiff jointed, he leapt forward, heading towards the road at a ground-devouring lope. How should he answer that question?  _Did_ he have kin there? Or was it because he'd murdered there, or something, and he just  _couldn't remember_ -

 _"No, no kin. Something..."_  he began, only to shake his head.  _"Worrisome, that so much has happened."_

He felt her arms tighten around him, and he took comfort from it. He almost stumbled in his run, though, when her soft lips skimmed his ear to murmur into it: "We take the roads to what's left of Durnholde, and then wander behind it to the hidden roads up into the Hinterlands and Aerie Peak."

While most of his memory continued to elude him, the roads were something engrained in his skull like a living map behind his eyes. It was something he meditated on while they traveled, his nose taking him on detours to avoid the various nasties that wandered about.

They worked the roads for most of the day, the journey made longer by her wolf's frequent detours off the road. His nose warned him when creatures of less-than-friendly temperment wandered close or lay in wait. They were easy to avoid, but often their presence required them to go miles out of their way. Tharrah never complained, though she was sore and tired of clinging like a monkey to his moving back.

The stormclouds that had chased them into an early retirement the day before had followed them, ambushing them just as the sun set and they found the bottom of the trail that wandered into the Hinterlands.

The cold and the wet never sat well with Tharrah, and while she would rather die than bitch about it, it set her teeth on edge when water began to trickle down the back of her shirt, and the wolf beneath her smelled of wet dog. She kept her bitter grumbles to herself and clung tight, silently willing the Worgen to eat the trail with those long legs of his.

By the time they made it to the Dwarven outpost, it was well into the night and probably into the wee hours of the morning. They were greeted with suspicion that melted swiftly enough, though they were given the barest of responses and gestured into the stone structure built into the mountain with little more than a pointed finger and a grunt.

Tharrah didn't blame them. She'd hate to be the patrol in the rain right now.

Once inside, she dropped from her Worgen, all grace wrung from her, and groaned as she stretched, carefully, letting the heat of the braziers warm her stiff muscles. He, for that matter, gave a lupine whimper and shuddered from neck to tail, a wave of flesh that brought to mind a dog on the verge of shaking his coat dr-

"Don't you  _dare_ , you cur!" exploded from Tharrah before she could stop herself. There was no malice in her words, but the shout froze the Worgen mid-step. Eyes wide, he gaped at her. "You are  _not_  going to do that in here... you want them to murder us in our sleep?"

She gripped his collar and hauled him up the stairs, finding the quarters that had been assigned to them tonight. There were many rooms, though most were empty; this outpost had less in the way of military action and more of a hostel these days. Still, Tharrah had no intention of ruining her reputation with the entire Dwarven nation by letting a soaked wolf-man shake himself dry amidst gunpowder, ammunition, and food rations.

All but kicking down the door to their room, she shoved him inside and dug about for a spare blanket. She threw it over him and barked,

"Change to a man, I don't care which is more convenient in getting yourself dry." She rubbed her eyes while he did as he was told, too tired to care if she sounded rude. "Strip and towel yourself, and hang your clothes on the grate." She gestured to the crackling fireplace in their hearth.

She stood as close to the fire as she dared, teeth chattering, wringing out her hair and digging into her pack for dry clothing. Gloves peeled off, then outer leggings along with her boots. Her cotton pants beneath the leathers were still fairly dry, so she kept them on as she struggled to unlace her jerkin.

Traveling as she had left her with muscles so sore and stiff that it was impossible to twist her hand about to unlace the ties along her spine, and with a curse and twinge of pain, she was fairly certain she'd also managed to pull something.

On the verge of tears, she tried an old dancer's trick, a motion of spine that flowed out into a hip undulation, trying to stretch out the offended tendon.

"-od dammitOW-" she gasped as fire lanced up from base of spine to nape of neck.

" _Stop,_ " came the gravelly voice of her companion, calloused hands wrapping around her wrists and unfolding her arms from where they strained to reach behind her back. Easily holding both in on hand, he held them out before her as his other hand plucked at her laces, easing the clothing enough until she could wriggle it over her head when he released her.

Wincing, she dropped the sodden bit of leather over the hearth, turning like a limping old woman to face her savior.

He was still wet, his hair plastered to his skull, his human face weary and drawn. She felt a pang of guilt as she realized how much he'd run today; Worgen or no it was a long journey. _Did I ask too much of him?_  she worried.

He'd drawn the blanket tight about him, the skin that showed looking pale but dry. He was pulling at the tie at the end of his plait, combing out the hair with shaking fingers. She followed suit, untying her own long braid as she stepped around him, barefoot and wearing only her loose blouse and cotton trousers.

His shaking hands had reminded her that they'd not stopped once, truly, and had literally eaten on the run. She tossed him an apple and some jerky, before sitting on the bed and digging into her own food. He crept close and folded his legs beneath him, sitting near her as he wolfed down his apple, then proceeded to slowly gnaw on his dried venison.

"They've decent gryphons here," mumbled Tharrah, picking shamefully at the flesh of her fruit. "You won't get pushed like you were today for the rest of the trip. We'll fly to the Dwarf capital and take the Tram." How could she have been so thoughtless, she mused.  _He's not an animal. Why did I use him as such without even considering his stamina?_

The soft growl from the floor had her look up, watching as the Worgen tilted his head, brow furrowed. She managed to stuff the last of her food in her mouth before holding up a hand. "No," she said firmly. "You aren't my beast of burden, no matter how much you enjoy it." She gave a little smile, dusting off her hands as she stood.

"And now we sleep. Bed or floor? Or we can share." She shrugged, not caring which.

To her amusement, her wolf blushed and stole an extra comforter off the bed, already spreading it out to his liking. If she didn't know better, she wondered, she'd think she made him shy.

 _And so what if I do?_  she mused.  _It's not like-_

With a wrench of sheer will, she slammed that particular train of thought down.  _No_ ,  _remember, this is what you do for a living; pouncing on poor new friends with no memory is a great way to_ lose _said friends. Just because you're used to jumping anything with a pulse-_  At that, she winced-  _doesn't make it ok. Even if he does like you. And it's been a while._

She eyed him over her shoulder, watching him stretch out.

_Or that he ripples like water under wind whenever he moves..._

She bit her lip and climbed into bed. And damn it all, for the first time in a while, she'd wished she'd had the room to herself.

 _I like it better when Death is chasing me every other minute,_  she thought sarcastically.  _No time to get turned on by nice smiles, warm beds, or long, lean, muscular bodies._


	7. An Aftermath of an Aftermath

He woke up first to silence and darkness.

The fire had smoldered into a darkening pile of coal, popping now and again. The room was carved into the mountain, so he heard neither wind nor rain.

The Worgen lifted his head, shifting without thought and sniffing the air.

Something wasn't right.

He couldn't figure it out, he had memories of fire and angry skies, memories that came from the wolf and not the man. He was gathering blankets and clothes and stuffing them into their bags, his eyes wildly darting about. It took seconds to find everything, and then he was on the bed.

Tharrah jerked upright, body stiff in alarm; Braeburn wondered if she felt it too.

 _"Up, must go now-"_ he snarled, only to be drowned out by the clanging of bells and steel-toed boots.

Dwarven soldiers were running down the hall, shouting warnings, banging on doors.

Clad in her sleeping garments, fast and light, Tharrah jumped from the bed and yanked open their's.

"-OUT get OUT, he's coming, he's landing  _here_ -" came the calls.

His mistress spun around and managed to jam on a boot before Braeburn got to her. Ignoring her protests, he swept her up, snatched up her pack and threw her over his broad, furred shoulder, muscling his way through the growing throng of shorter, sturdy men. Tharrah was yelling at him to slow up, or look out, or something, but he wasn't listening to closely. He watched the others around him pour through and out the main entrance, and he followed suit.

Outside, it was still dark, the rain had stopped, but the wind was blowing.

It was hot, and smelled of brimstone.

It was then Tharrah went silent.

He could feel where the danger was. The sky was glowing red in the distance and it was coming closer. He heard shouts of warning, dire commands and exultant prayers and pleas. But he was already moving.

There was safety in distance, back beyound the keep and over the hills, the wolf in him felt it in his bones. With a growl to his human to cling tight, he threw her around to his back with her arms tight about his neck, and began to climb the rocky terrain. He could just barely scent moving water through the heat that was coming, but he knew it was there.

Adrenaline pumped through his body, urged him to climb faster than ever before; he clawed tree and bush, boulder and stone, up, up, up through shale and dirt, and finally, over the cliffs up towards the rifts in the mountains. He was swift, swifter than thought, on all fours, running towards spine of the mountains and the cresting horizon-

The shouts behind them were becoming louder, some turning to screams as the heat started to bloom. Braeburn ignored it all, and just ran, ran as hard and fast as he could, taking solace in the arms tightening about his neck and shoulders, the face he felt pressed into his churning muscles.

The glow of fire and heat behind them grew brighter, fiercer, staining the world before them in living light-

Then he missed a step, yelped, and fell forward into air, bramble, and the angry fist of gravity.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The soothing sound of water lapping against stone filtered through her dreams.

She was lying face down on a shallow river bed, her head turned, one side of her face submerged. When she tried to move, every inch of her complained through her nerves; she was truly a walking, living bruise.

 _But living!_ she thought, triumphant despite her aches.

She moved to her hands and knees, rocking back to sit up, brushing her pale hair from her face as she peered about, in particular back behind her and up, from where they fell.

Sheer terror had powered her since she'd understood what it was they'd fled, that Deathwing had all but landed near the Dwarven outpost, searing the grounds and woods about it into ash and charcoal. She couldn't believe how close it'd been, and she fervently hoped that those left behind had survived somehow.

The world was hazy with smoke, drowning the sunlight into a subdued, melancholy ambience, the smell of burnt ... everything ... wafting from the south. The mountainside they'd practically tumbled down bore only signs of their passing; no fire came in their wake.

_That's good, one less thing to worry about._

She crawled to the still-shaggy form of her Worgen, noting with relief that he breathed and groaned when she rolled him over. His coat was a mess, tangled and stained, and she winced when she spotted one brown eye, all but swollen shut.

"Hey, wolf," she called softly, touching his lupine cheek. "It's time to wake up."

His one good eye eased open, only to unfocus in pain, her friend struggling not to whine canine-like as his injuries came to bear. She understood this; it'd happened to her minutes before, but when his eye rolled back and he made no sound further, except to breathe, Tharrah felt a rising surge of alarm.

"Wolf?" she said, a little louder, trying to shake him gently, her hands on his shoulders. He felt warm ... and wet.

"Did you fall in the wat-" she began to wonder, only to realize that it wasn't the river that had stained his fur; it was blood.

It had taken her several minutes to drag him to the shelter of a large tree, and an hour or more to scout out a decent place to bandage him. The cave she'd found was more than adequate, secluded and sheltered with its own bubbling stream, but if ever she'd been asked, she'd swear it all took minutes to bring together, and that the mere minutes it took to get him to said cave had been the longest moments of her life.

It had a low ceiling and a mostly dirt-covered floor. She had to stoop to enter it, and she ended up rolling the Worgen into it the last few feet. It was a good thing she'd done it all so quickly, too; the sky, in the wake of the World-Ender, opened its eyes and grieved the smoldering, wretched valley beyond.

Her first problem was his fur.

There was so much of it, and she couldn't part it well enough to get at the wounds that still seeped and bled. He didn't so much as twitch when she called to him or pushed at him, and hort of shaving him, she couldn't think of anything else to do but-

She gnawed at her lip, considering her options.

Leaning close to his ear, she pressed against him, as she'd seen wolves and dogs do, and whined, faintly, like a puppy might.

His head moved, just a little.

Holding her breath, she leaned closer and carefully, lifted his jaw and gently nipped his lupine chin.

She had several large wolf-hounds at her brothel, raised and cared for from pups, and they always dissolved into wiggling, happy puppies when she nipped them thusly. As she gather it might be, it seemed to be a universal affection that evoked trust and even a little love. She prayed that's what it would do now.

He loosed a breath, a long sigh, and she watched his shoulders go lax as he flopped on to his belly. She whispered into his ear, sure she had his attention now:

"Wolf, it's me, it's Tharrah." His ear twitched, even though his head was now turned away. "I can't get to your wounds, love, and you're... you're still bleeding. Please, please phase back, so I can help you. Please..." she bit her lip, willing herself not to give into the panic that sought to take hold. "Please, for me?"

For several heartbeats, she thought he hadn't heard her, and then that ripple of smoke and muscle radiated through his limbs, and with an arcane wind, he was his (mostly) human self.

With rain water and the torn hem of her cotton blouse, she got most of his cuts and scratches clean, the larger ones bound. But she was running out of fabric. She tore at the remnants of his leather vest, using it to bind and tie, opting for clean, dry lichen to soak and staunch the blood. She vowed, though, that should he worsen, she'd run nude if it meant using her cotton shirt to stem the bleeding.

Most of his wounds were on his back, from neck to ankles, and it took less than a moment to know how he'd obtained them this way.

 _He wrapped around me,_  she thought in awe, trying very, very hard not to weep.  _Stupid, selfless creature. Why are you so kind to me?_

Thankfully, he'd managed to grab a wool cloak as he'd ran (or maybe he got caught up in it?), and it was another option for bandage material. But night was falling, premature, she thought, and mayhap something to do with Deathwing; regardless, it was getting cold and she had no idea where they were. The cloak was too useful as a blanket at this point, and too vital to their survival; she'd dare not light a fire yet.

Satisfied that he was bandaged as best as she was able, she contemplated her next course of action, watching a shiver run through him. She frowned.

_Come on, girl! It's a fantasy come true!_

_...right?_

Grumbling to herself, and the Universe at large, she stripped her clothes and laid them some place high and dry, before slipping in next to her Worgen and pressing against his side, drawing the cloak over them. She burrowed between him and the cave wall, noting his skin was over-warm; she wondered if that was normal.

Either way, it was good enough for her; warm and somewhat safe, and exhausted, Tharrah could barely keep her eyes open. With a quick prayer that they would remain hidden, she let go and fell into a restful, albeit shallow, sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She smelled good.

Braeburn couldn't decide if he wanted to wake from this dream, or stay in it. But she smelled good,  _very_  good, and she was naked to boot.

In his wild form, furred and clawed, he was pressing down on her, running his hands over her soft skin, through her flaxen hair, over the lush curves of her. And she was responding to him, more proof it was a dream; she was sighing and murmuring at him, arching her back when his claws would rake gently down her thighs, or trace the edges of her nipples.

The scent of her was intoxicating. His wolf's nose could smell the arousal of her, the honey that seeped down her skin from the apex of her thighs, and before long he was nosing there, ignoring her batting hands and twisting hips. The new flush of her fragrance meant she  _wanted_  this, and who was he to deny her needs?

His tongue, broad and dog-like, drew long, slow, careful strokes up the seam of her sex, again, and again, and again, until her hips were lifting in anxious anticipation. WIth a growl not unlike a wolf's before a meal, he pressed his snout forward and lapped at her deep, slow, and greedily.

His only regret was not using his hands on her, but as it was, his tongue was thick and strong enough to press into her, his nose nudging insistently at the swollen pearl in her folds at the same time. This was how she came in his dream, back arched and biting the palm of her hand, stifling cries into desperate, delicious whimpers, her hips bucking and spasming into his mouth.

Aroused to the point of pain, Braeburn felt ridiculously proud of his work, wondering if he'd ever be able to serve her like this. He ignored that voice that told him he would never be worth such a thing, and to even  _dream_  of it as he was was completely laughable.

But it  _was_  his dream.

He drew up along her, rubbing fur-covered muscles across soft, smooth flesh, the worgen eager and ready, and certain she was too; again, he could smell it on her skin. He drew her thighs apart and bent her legs, pressing her feet together, her ankles towards her chest, angling her hips  _just so_. It was then that her eyes fluttered, looking up at him, her brow furrowed, her gaze heavy with blissful lust.

And he knew suddenly he wasn't dreaming.

He didn't catch himself in time; he was already shoving forward, buried to the hilt, and then further-

Wolves, and dogs betimes, have a swollen base to their organs, a knot of flesh that binds male to female in coitus so as to keep the seed within from spilling out, ensuring fertility in the rare moments when heat and need match. Most Worgen have these in wolf form, but not in human, as the conditioning of the Druids, they swear, making phasing Human-form a complete shift to normal, previous condition.

Braeburn, however, had no such conditioning, and had to claw his way back to his humanity on his own. The journey was complete, but his humanity was not, at least not physically.

What Tharrah had seen before, she felt now, a seering, aching stretch of flesh as her Worgen slid his thick erection into her, and followed it with a quick, instinctive thrust to seal her with the much thicker, throbbing base.

She could not staunch this cry, her face contorted in helpless pleasure. Soaked from his loving mouth, the penetration was perfect and, on the edge of her last orgasm, he felt her clenching around him again, her muscles fluttering, contracting around the swollen length of him, her nails biting into his furred elbows.

Braeburn was at a complete loss, ears laid back, panting, torn and confused and absolutely horrified, but also completely buried in a tight, warm, welcoming, wide set of bucking hips. He begged apology and gritted his teeth, and proceeded to hump and pump as best as he was able;  _it had been so long-!_

The subtle, shallow movement, as there was no room to thrust, rubbed and pressed deep within her, and he felt her muscles continue to contract and squeeze around him in a never-ending, torturous test of his stamina. She was lost beneath him, eyes glazed and lips parted, shaking, voicing noises he hadn't known a human woman capable of. The sensations spiraled higher, and higher, and higher, until he couldn't think or see or breathe, only grunt and watch as she opened her mouth wider and wider and wider, her skin glistening with sweat, her flesh fever-hot. She groped for his hand and found it, drew it to her mouth and bit into the leathery pads of his paws as she screamed and screamed, jerking and tensing, rigid beneath the intense sensation.

The bite sent Braeburn tumbling head long into a rush of heat and liquid culmination; his hips froze and proceeded to jerk, the Worgen groaning low and deep and resonant as muscles tightened and spasmed and he unleashed a ridiculously amount of seed into Tharrah's shaking, twitching body.

In the aftermath, neither could do more than breathe, hard and loud and quick, and sag against each other, startled by the occurence, moved by the desire, and completely, utterly spent, unable to move from the other, by design and neccessity. Another moment later, and each was passed out, tangled in the other.


	8. The Question of Worth

Waking up the next morning had Tharrah wishing, just a little bit, that she'd died the following day.

  
She was sore. She was dirty. She ached in places and ways that usually meant there was a full purse in her coffers but was definitely not the case this time. Bruises speckled her body, she was pretty certain one was blooming across her cheek from where she landed face first into a rocky stream.

  
Despite these joys, however, she was oddly at ease.

  
Maybe it had to do with the fantastic way she'd been woken some time in the early morning, with a very long, agile tongue in some very private places. Or perhaps the solid rutting and the complete understanding of how a 'knot' truly worked. Perchance that had something to do with it.

  
The man she was using as a mattress was to blame for all of it. Sleeping deep and sound, snoring softly, sprawled on his belly with arms and legs outstretched. His content rumbling was the only sign she had that he wasn't dead beneath her. She rubbed her cheek affectionately against his shoulderblade, smiling.

  
Easing from him carefully, she cast about for her clothes. Torn and stained, her cotton shirt and linen trews were the only thing she had for the moment, and she decided right then that she would make do. Maybe they'd get lucky and she'd find her pack.

  
Naked and unashamed, she crawled out from their little cave nude and smiling. It didn't matter that she was limping or stiff; she was alive and in good company. That was all that mattered.

  
There was a deeper part in the swollen stream, the water calmer there and sheltered by several large weeping willows, their branches a curtain against the rising sun and the chilling morning wind. Setting her clothes to soak, she waded into the cool water and did her best on her skin and hair, scrubbing at her flesh with a bit of unused bandage.

  
Even without soap, it was good to be somewhat clean. Her clothes took a bit more effort with poorer results, but it was better than nothing.

  
Despite the breeze the sun was more than warm, soon finding her sprawled atop the grass, clothes spread out on a boulder nearby to dry. It felt good to be alive, escaping near death with her wolf.

  
She heard him before she opened her eyes.

  
His steps were timid, careful, but unmasked; she was certain that if he felt like it, he could make himself completely unheard even to her rogue-trained ears. Shading her eyes, she opened them to slits and sought him out.  
He looked as he'd sounded, timid and careful, human (-ish), hair tangled and matted as hers had been, mud and dirt on his skin and no few bruises, but other than that he appeared unharmed and healed from yesterday's injuries. He was rubbing that back of his neck with one hand, approaching but looking away from her, and in his other hand-

  
"You found it!" she exclaimed, grinning as she reached for her pack. He kept his head lowered as she stole into the knapsack. She tossed him the soap, which he caught with a bewildered expression on his face, and yelped happily when she found several extra articles of clothing.

  
He stood there soap in hand, staring at her, until she pointed to the stream. "Go. Bath." He wilted. " _Now._ "

  
With a huff and a grumble, he went. Tharrah tried very hard not to smile.

  
Once he was scrubbed and rinsing she stole the precious bar of soap and worked on getting the last bit of grime off her skin, hating the Worgen blood staining her fingers. The fear for him from last night slammed into her, making her heart race and her belly feel hollow.

  
 _I'd been so afraid_ , she though, wincing. _I don't know how Maia manages to spend all her time alone. I think I'd have gone mad without ... without..._

  
And then she blinked, something occuring to her. She let out a sharp whistle.

  
"Oy! C'mere!" she called.

  
In a moment, he stalked out of the water, changing from Worgen form into human, shaking himself dry. Naked and uncaring, he soon stood before her sun-bathed rock dripping. She pointed to the spot in front of her.

  
"Sit and turn around," she said.

  
He obeyed, back to her.

  
"Do you mind if I trim your hair?" she murmured, pulling a pair of shears from her pack. "There are .... singed bits."

  
His shoulders lifted in a shrug, pulling his knees up to drape his long arms around them.

  
In the light of day, she could see now that his wounds had healed but their scars remained across the stretch of his shoulderblades, pink and fresh and tender from the way he twitched when she passed her hands over them. She lingered over them a little longer, before gathering up his long hair into one hand.

  
Cutting his hair was fairly simple and while she debated on leaving it a little long, as was the style these days, she wound up cutting it quite short in the back, military short, leaving just enough on top to run her fingers through.

  
She was doing just that, combing her fingers through the hair on the top of his head, when she said to him softly, "I want to thank you for saving me again last night, but I don't know your name. I don't know why it didn't occur to me to ask before now." She winced. "My apologies, my friend. Can ... I know what you're called?"

  
He'd tilted his head back as she'd pet him, the back of his head resting on her upper arm. At her apology and request, he straightened up and turned to look at her, a frown furrowing his brow; apparently it had only just occured to him too.

  
A teasing smile lit her face. She touched the space just above her breasts, still as naked as he, and said, " _ThaarrRRrraah,_ " doing a fair imitation of his wolfish, grinding tones.

  
His eyes sparkled, a playful expression brightening across his features. " _Rrrrrraaa,_ " he echoed.

  
She laughed.

  
"Thar _rR_ rah," he growled softly, working to soften the Worgen 'accent'. Tharrah stopped laughing.

  
"It sounds .... nice, when you say it that way," she murmured, running her fingers across his lips. His eyes closed and leaned into her touch with a sigh so tender it made something squeeze in her chest. _How lonely it must have been for him, with naught but wild Worgen for company. No one to touch, or to_ be _touched by._ That would be hell for her and she felt no shame in admitting it. 

  
Considering this, she decided she would find more reasons to touch him. Her thoughts and fingers wandered, the latter up along his nose, the long bridge, the dark, thick eyebrows. He pressed into her hand, leaning bodily into her now. She smiled a little.

  
" _Brr_ raaeburrn," he mumbled into her neck. Again, her smile faded, shivering under the reverberating tones.

  
"Braeburn," she repeated softly. He sighed against her skin. She tugged at his hair, lifting his face up to peer at him. " _Thank you_ , Braeburn," she said quietly, "for saving my life. Again."

 

 

* * *

 

  
Neither of them had armor to speak of, a set of leather pants and linen shirt to each of them, boots for Tharrah but nothing like that for Braeburn, though he didn't need it. She talked him out of shifting for a while, preferring to walk and talk as they followed the river.

  
They had decided on traveling towards the Plaguelands; the terrain there was slowly healing and the Alliance encampments had only multiplied and fortified as time had gone on. If they would a gryphon or caravan to a city, it'd be there.

  
While Tharrah babbled as they walked, her wolf was quiet, content to listen. If he responded, it was with a facial expression or a twitch of his shoulders, a gesture of hands or the occassional, inquisitive growl. She didn't mind; he was attentive and genuine in his interest, but preferred, it seemed, not to speak. It was an easy thing to accept.

  
When they stopped for the night, Braeburn pulled his shirt over his head and passed her his pants without a word, dropping into his worgen form to scout area. Thara waited in the shade of a large tree by the river, ears alert and daggers ready.

  
His return was soundless, he on all fours, and she didn't even know he was there until his nose slid under her right elbow, his head coming up under her arm. She laughed softly at his obvious request for affection, smiling as his eyes lidded when she scratched along his thick ruff.

  
"Wolves are social creatures, mmm?" she teased. His only response was to lean into her fingers and rumble.

  
Camp was set up quickly; Braeburn had caught a few rabbits while he'd checked the perimeter, and she skinned and cooked both in the coals of their tiny fire.

  
There'd been only one bedroll in her knapsack, and she spread it out on even ground. She still had her wool cloak, but using it on both of them would require a similar set up to last night.

  
While he sat on a log on the other side of the campfire, Tharrah pulled her own shirt over her head, folding it and placing it on a rock by her pack along with his clothes. Her pants soon followed.

  
She was going to turn and beckon him, but began to do so only to find him standing right behind her.

  
He was still a wolf, looming above her, his shoulders curled forward and his eyes alight with his familiar lupine energy. His breathing was louder, deeper, his nose dipping close to scent under her ear, down along her jaw.

  
Tharrah shivered and threaded her fingers through the thick fur at his shoulders and neck.

  
"I know you from last night," she whispered, lips curved in a small smile. "But what of the other? The one who doesn't wear fur but flesh and honor-won scars?"

  
Braeburn went still, almost stiff, tilting his head as he considered her and her words. When he changed, hair receding and limbs thinning, he was still tall but no longer as relaxed and calm as he'd been in worgen form.

  
No, now he seems almost shy.Tharrah cupped his face in her hands, thumbs tracing the sharp cheekbones beneath the deepset eyes, drawing his head up to make him meet her gaze. He stiffened again.

  
"Braeburn," she said quietly.

  
His eyes flicked up to meet her's.

  
"I trust your wolf to guard us while we sleep," she murmured. "Is that safe to assume?"

  
In answer, he hesitantly drew her into him, arms winding about her, lifting her with ease to the bedroll, arranging her between his legs as he settled her back to his chest. She voiced a cry, muffled in the folds of her shirt as he drew it down around her. Untangling the sleeves and sliding the garment properly, she twisted in his arms to arch an eyebrow at him. He blushed... blushed! ... and drew the cloak over the both of them.

  
" _Wolf_ is more worthy of you," he graveled at her, unable again to meet her eyes. "Warmer, _strongerrrRr_ , more powerful..." This was the most she'd heard from him at once. "Pr _rrRrr_ rotects you, saved you. More ... uh. Satisfying?"

  
She blinked at him. "How would we know that unless we...?"

  
A soft, plaintive whine escaped him. "- _nnnN_ not yet. Not yet, please. Man is... man... " He was blushing harder, cleared his throat. "I .... _I_ am not worthy. Not... not yet."

  
Tharrah sighed and turned around, feeling him settle himself against the trunk of the tree behind him, his arms winding about her beneath the wool cloak. She was warm and comfortable despite her disappointment.

  
"I can't remember the last time I failed to seduce someone," she grumbled.

  
She'd expected him to laugh, maybe sigh and mock her. She didn't expect the soft, reverent kiss to her pulse at her throat, or the fierce, deep shudder that rippled through her in response.

  
"Not fail," he stressed. "Just ... _need_ to feel-"

  
"-worthy. I know," she sighed, and settled back into him for the night.


End file.
